Bride of the Duke
by zeldazonk
Summary: Let's all imagine what would have happened had Christian not saved Satine during "Spectacular Spectacular" and instead, the not-dying courtesan turns to the Duke. . .
1. Chapter I

A/N: Set in the spring after "Spectacular, Spectacular." Christian did not show up to save her and Satine is not dying. Get it? Got it? Good.  
  
  
  
She must have replayed that scene a thousand times over in her head.  
  
"I am the Hindu courtesan and I choose the maharajah."  
  
Her cold tone, his crestfallen expression, the glint of unshed tears in his eyes, the sharp pang in her heart after the words left her mouth; all of this, over and over in Satine's distraught mind.  
  
She had never been praised for her intelligence, but this confirmed it. She was stupid. Completely, utterly, unfailingly stupid. Stupid for listening to Harold, believing his words. Stupid for taking this damned position with the Duke, tricking him into thinking she loved him, all for the damned Moulin Rouge. Stupid for letting the love of her life, the only one who could have saved her, go.  
  
"I'm so sorry, my dear Duke-" That was the noise nagging on her ear, interrupting Satine's reverie momentarily.  
  
"Please, darling, call me by my first name."  
  
"Mmm?" Oh, this was a bind! She did not know his first name, as all the time she had known him Satine had called him "Duke."  
  
"Alfred. But of course you knew that, my dearest Satine. Champagne?"  
  
"Please." She let him pour the amber liquid into her slim crystal glass and took a delicate sip. Even champagne reminded her of Christian. "Damn you, Satine!" Her conscience said to her. "You've got to stop this foolishness! It's the Duke who will give you what you want, not the penniless poet."  
  
"But it's the penniless poet I want," said the other side of Satine's psyche.  
  
"Darling? You are distracted tonight."  
  
"SNAP OUT OF IT, SATINE!" Shrieked her conscience, waking her up and making her leave her thoughts behind.  
  
"Oh, I'm so sorry! I simply have so much on my mind, after the success of the show and all. You must understand."  
  
"Completely." He held his glass up in the air and she caught her reflection in it. She was, as always, breathtakingly beautiful, but now that glow that had once surrounded the Sparkling Diamond was gone. Putting on a smile to disguise her misery, Satine clinked her champagne goblet to his in a toast. "To Satine, and all our tomorrows."  
  
All our tomorrows. All OUR tomorrows; Satine noticed his stress on the word and her heart sank. She looked around nervously, hating the sweltering wealth consuming her. The red velvet, the elegant, impeccably polished mahogany, the glistening silver, the maids and the waiters; all of it sickened her. She would be swallowed by this, both Alfred and his wealth.  
  
"Whatever happened to that little writer, Satine dear?"  
  
"I don't know, Alfred. I think he must have left France, for not even Toulouse has seen him since the day of opening night."  
  
"Ah, very well. He had a habit of putting a damper on things, did he not?"  
  
"Oh, indeed." Indeed NOT, screamed Satine inside. It was you, Alfred, who did that, never Christian. Never, ever Christian.  
  
Later, having satisfied themselves with a meal fit for Queen Victoria herself, Satine and the Duke retired to the garden of his France chateau. Twilight had descended upon Paris; deep velvety purple dotted with diamonds of glittering stars, far more shining than the jewels about Satine's neck and wrists. The heavy aroma of English roses filled her brain and all the wine and champagne consumed had Satine just a bit dizzy. "Lovely night, is it not?" She asked.  
  
"Very. Not as lovely as you, my darling." He smiled at her, fluttering his eyelids in a way she supposed he thought to be flattering but was definitely not.  
  
"You flatter me."  
  
"Surely not."  
  
The rose in Satine's hand threaded through her nervous fingers until the thorns finally cut into the delicate flesh. She watched silently as her crimson blood formed on the tip of her finger and wished she were Sleeping Beauty so a prick on her finger would make her sleep one hundred years. Satine plucked the petals off the pale pink flower, letting them drop to the ground like the pieces of her broken heart of glass.  
  
"I have a proposition for you," once again, his irritating voice cut into Satine's trance-like state.  
  
She turned her face to him, eyebrows raised in question. "Yes, my very dear Alfred?"  
  
Alfred rose from his chair and paced beside a rosebush before finally stopping to stand before Satine. She looked down, pretending to be a docile female studying the folds of her emerald silk dress.  
  
"You know you are very dear to me."  
  
She dreaded the next words.  
  
"I cannot envision myself in the future without you by my side as my devoted wife."  
  
Satine hoped her eyes weren't bulging out with shock.  
  
"And since we share the same feelings," Alfred dropped to one knee and pulled out a small box covered in red leather. Satine nearly died of horror. "I am asking you this. Will you, Satine LaBelle Zidler, be my wife and the mistress of the Monroth empire and let me give you everything you want?"  
  
He flipped open the lid of the jewel box and, nestled in fine creamy silk, sat the hugest, most glittering, ugliest diamond she had ever seen.  
  
I am a diamond. They paid for me in diamonds. They bestowed diamonds upon me. My heart is a diamond. A diamond is a stone. Diamonds are beautiful, sparkling. But they are also hard, heartless stones. I am a diamond, and this is my fate.  
  
No, no, no, no, no! This wasn't happening. She was drunk on absinthe, hallucinating. The Duke was not proposing to her and asking her to be the Duchess of Monroth. Of course not. This was a dream; a nightmare. Satine would open her eyes and there beside her would be Christian, sleeping soundly as a little boy, freckled nose and hair rumpled. She would tell him of her dream and they would laugh together at the sheer insanity of it all.  
  
"Act overjoyed, Satine," said Courtesan-Satine to the dumbstruck woman in the garden. "Say yes. He can offer you anything you desire."  
  
"Don't do it!" Instructed the other Satine in her mind. "Refuse politely and run away, run away as quickly as possible; run to Christian, who loves you."  
  
"Don't listen to that silly romantic side. Christian doesn't love you anymore! Remember?"  
  
Satine smiled and found the courage to stare Alfred in his watery green eyes. "Alfred," she said, taking his hand and rising in a smooth motion from her chair. "I would be very happy to be your wife."  
  
He grinned and shoved that huge rock onto her finger with so much force Satine had to suppress a cry of pain.  
  
"I would be . . .very happy." 


	2. Chapter II

Chapter 2  
  
  
  
Christian had not left France as Satine had assumed. No, he had pent himself up in his garret, trying to write but usually consumed by grief and hate. He'd settled into a routine of sleeping as late as possible, sitting down at his typewriter, writing a few words, and then ripping the aforementioned document into many small pieces, tears running down his bearded face the whole while.  
  
For no longer was he handsome, starry-eyed Christian Claremont, the lovestruck poet who had changed the life of so many. Now he was bitter, hating the light for it meant another day without her. No longer did he care what he looked like. A heavy beard with bits of the little food he ate hung limply from his face. His once-vibrant eyes were now dim and uncaring. A mouth that had so often gleamed a smile was now serious, frowning. Lines were beginning to cut deep in his forehead from pensive thought.  
  
"Christian!" Toulouse's lisp was loud and easy to hear through the door, probably proclaiming some useless information that Christian would have no use for; he wanted no part in any more Bohemian Revolution shit for it had single-handedly ruined his life. "I have news!"  
  
"Go 'way, Toulouse."  
  
"News about Satine . . ."  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"Open this damned door and let me in."  
  
Trodding carefully over the bits of glass broken in a fit of rage, Christian made his way to the door. Toulouse stood there with a newspaper in hand. "Look, Christian." The little man shoved the paint-smudged paper towards his friend, who took it eagerly.  
  
"Were you using this as a paint testing page, Toulouse?"  
  
His friend grinned in answer to Christian's question. Christian went back to the paper and skimmed the words with a trained eye.  
  
"I see nothing."  
  
"You're on the wrong page." Toulouse flipped to the Society columns and pointed a blue-painted finger at an article. "Duke of Monroth to Wed Parisian Actress."  
  
"They said Satine was an actress," Toulouse remarked.  
  
Christian was struck dumb for a short time before he recovered the ability to speak. "She's done it. Why did you show this to me, Toulouse? Damn you!" Christian hurled the offending bit of news to the floor and diverted his eyes from the words. "Duke of Monroth to Wed Parisian Actress."  
  
Satine had truly ended it between them. She had given her hand in marriage to the Duke, and there was no way Christian could steal her back now. "Who am I kidding?" He yelled, furious, forgetting Toulouse was in the room. "She never loved me in the first place! I was just a toy, a ploy for her and Zidler to use my writing for that stupid, stupid show. God damn her! Damn her to hell!" In one deft movement, Christian shredded the paper in half, then into tiny pieces that fluttered to the floor with the rhythm of his aching heart. "Why did she do it, Toulouse?" He stalked the confines of his small apartment in a confused temper, trying to find one trace of Satine he could destroy. Of course, that had been done days ago, hours ago. A pearl necklace lay in pieces on the floor, the tiny jewels a hazard to visitors. One of her pictures had been violated by a glass of absinthe, and it sat in a wrinkled mess on Christian's desk, a reminder of what he had loved and now hated. "Why did she do it?" Christian sat beside his friend and whimpered the question softly.  
  
"She knew."  
  
"Knew what?"  
  
"You weren't coming back. You wouldn't save her, couldn't save her."  
  
Why was Toulouse so goddamned wise, anyway? Was it a blessing because of his small size, given to him after his accident? Whatever it was, it drove Christian mad. Toulouse was always right. "What do you mean, Toulouse? She doesn't love me and we both know it."  
  
"Ah, this is where you go wrong."  
  
"What in the hell do you mean by that 'You're wrong' shit?" When angry, Christian was not quite as eloquent as usual.  
  
"She loves you still. But she has given up hope, just like you have. So she said 'Yes' to the Duke and will be his wife."  
  
"I hate her."  
  
"No, you don't."  
  
"I know I don't. I can't." Christian ran a hand through his hair and stared into the eyes of his best friend; Toulouse's eyes were deep and velvet brown, jaded with time and slightly wistful in a way that made Christian's heart ache more.  
  
"I understand," stated Toulouse quietly, placing a comforting hand on Christian's shaking shoulder. The tears flowed freely from his dim blue eyes, tears of betrayal, of hate, of fear, of grief, and of love.  
  
"What am I going to do? Toulouse, I can't let her marry him! I still love her, damnit!"  
  
Toulouse pondered for a moment. Oh, how he wanted to help Christian, his beloved friend. But he was just a drunken, vice-ridden gnome with his only weapon his paintbrush. Toulouse couldn't paint a paradise for Christian, for the things he created on that canvas were simply fantasies. His bohemian ideals of Truth, Beauty, Freedom, and Love were just that: ideals. Dreams, wishes, unattainable glory that no small midget with a lisp could achieve in any way. For without the zenith of love, one could not accomplish these. Love fed dreams, and Toulouse had no one to love him.  
  
"What am I going to do, Toulouse?"  
  
"The only thing you can do."  
  
"And what is that? Would you quit being so elusive?"  
  
"We've got to save her! We'll stop the wedding!"  
  
"Toulouse?"  
  
"Yes?" An inquisitive look from the artist.  
  
A smile broke over Christian's face. "You're insane. But you're also a genius." 


	3. Chapter III

Chapter 3  
  
"If you'll excuse me, Alfred, I'm going to take a bath." She needed to get away from him; Satine was suffocating from his zealous attention and any moment she was going to break down and cry. Upon looking down, the diamond weighting down hand glittered as though it was mocking her. Satine wanted to rip it off and throw it in the grass.  
  
"Of course."  
  
"Goodnight, my dear." Disguising her misery, Satine turned herself back into the Sparkling Diamond, a persona that had been so easy to embody earlier but was now nearly impossible. "Goodnight, Satine darling. I will have the maids prepare your bath."  
  
She was living openly at his France home. Satine could care less who thought this scandalous; it was better than living at the Moulin with the endless memories there to haunt her and Christian residing so close by. And with her career as a prostitute, she was no stranger to scandal.  
  
Satine made her way up the heavy mahogany stairs lined with red velvet, trailing her hand across the balustrade. This would be her home. She would be Duchess Satine of Monroth. She'd live a life of discontent, restlessness. The Duke would want children; Satine couldn't bear the thought of having his children. Rabbity babies with red hair like hers. Children she would never be able to love as they were not the children of her true love, her Lancelot, her knight in shining armor, the only one she would ever love: Christian.  
  
As she slid herself into the huge bathtub brimming with water and smelling of lavender, Satine's tears began to flow. Uncontrollable hot tears ran down her face and mingled with the bathwater. Although she tried to sob as quietly as possible, soon it became too hard to breathe and she was sure her loud gasping could be heard down the hall. Her chest cavity was totally devoid of a heart, empty forever. It was as hollow as could be, and she cared little now. She was a diamond and she had a heart of stone.  
  
Satine contemplated submerging herself in the water forever. The maids would find her, auburn hair streaming like seaweed; face a ghastly shade of blue-gray. Death would come hurtling toward her like a comet and she would welcome it, for death was a far better fate than the mess she'd entangled herself in.  
  
But who would come to her funeral? Harold, Marie, and the girls, of course. Alfred would be there, playing the role of the grieving fiancée. Would Christian come? A knife stabbed into Satine's heart when she realized that was doubtful. He cared nothing for her now; she had ruined their beautiful love with her selfish desire for fame and glory. Wiping away her tears, Satine stepped out of the bath not with a relaxed mind but a heavy heart. "Are you all right, Mademoiselle?" Asked one of the maids when she encountered the red-eyed Satine in the hallway. "I'm fine. I got a little soap in my eye; I shall be just fine, Amelia." She flashed the petite maid a smile in effort to disguise her unhappiness, but had a feeling that the girl knew her true feelings.  
  
In her bedroom, she slipped into one of her fine French silk dressing gowns and sat at her vanity running a brush through her mass of tangles. "Mademoiselle?" Amelia's soft and timid voice could be heard on the other side of the door. "Master Alfred would like you to come down to his office for a cup of tea."  
  
"Tell him I shall be right down, Amelia."  
  
"Yes, Mademoiselle." "Amelia?" Satine called through the heavy wood of the door. "Yes, Mademoiselle?"  
  
"Please, call me Satine."  
  
"Yes, Mademoiselle . . .Satine."  
  
"That's much better. Thank you." Satine pinched her cheeks to give them a little color; she had become so frightfully pale! Tying the white dressing gown around her, she slipped her feet into the matching silk slippers and headed down the hallways to meet Alfred.  
  
The halls of Maison Blanche, Alfred's France home, were dark and masculine; mahogany and velvet, leather and paintings depicting a man's triumph over beasts. In the dark with only the dim gaslights to help her find her way, Satine found herself gasping at animal heads mounted on the walls. A deer, a buffalo, even the head of a tiger stared at her with their glassy death eyes and Satine couldn't help but feel akin to them. "Look at us," she whispered. "We're one and the same. We're prizes to hang on a wall or an arm, captured simply so he can display us for the world to see."  
  
Padding softly across the red velvet carpeting, Satine came finally to the menacingly carved door leading to Alfred's study. She raised her hand cautiously and knocked three times, very softly. "Come in," came the snidely reply.  
  
The smell of cigar smoke and alcohol hit her right away, smells that reminded her of the Moulin Rouge. The appreciation for the little she wore shone brightly in Alfred's seawater eyes and he smiled. "How was your bath?"  
  
"Horrible," Satine wanted to say, but instead she beamed and replied, "Very nice."  
  
"I hate this house! I hate this man!" Screamed her conscience. Satine quickly shoved that to the back of her mind. "Tea?" Alfred handed her a china cup and Satine took it, cupping her cold hands against the warmth.  
  
"Mmm, thank you." "Darling?" Satine looked up and met his eyes. "I want to discuss our wedding." A blush arose in his cheeks and he squirmed in pleasure. "What do you want to discuss?" Uncomfortable with his suggestion, Satine stirred her tea and pretended to be fascinated with the pale liquid as it swirled around and around. "Shall we set a date?"  
  
"I want to be married as quickly as possible." Satine stated flatly, barely looking up. "As do I."  
  
"June twelfth." The date was an impulse to Satine, but when the words had left her mouth she instantly regretted it. "The first day we met." She said it with a smile, for it was also the day she had met Christian and fallen so completely in love. Alfred nodded. "I shall alert the papers."  
  
"I want to be married in England." "Excuse me?" He lifted an eyebrow in surprise. "You want to be married in England?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"How lovely! We can marry at my ancestral home, Monroth Manor. It's a splendid idea!" Alfred grinned, showing quintessentially British teeth and repulsing Satine. He advanced toward her. "He's going to touch me," thought Satine, trying not to shrink away in fear and disgust. "I don't want this . . .not tonight."  
  
Alfred's hand was in her hair, stroking the damp curls. His lips were on her neck while the other hand roved to slip under the collar of her dressing gown. His fingers on her skin made her flesh crawl, but he mistook this for pleasure. "You like that?" Satine uttered a small cry, and yet again Alfred misunderstood. "Ah, yes, you do."  
  
"Please, not tonight. I don't feel well." She managed, gasping out the words, her heart pounding all the way up to her throat.  
  
"It's always 'No.' Tonight, it will not be 'No.' Tonight it will be MY way. You will be MY bride. Consider it your wedding gift to me." His voice was cold and menacing, sending shivers down Satine's spine. She squirmed but his firm grip withheld her from escaping. His dry, meaningless lips planted kisses all over her body. She hated him, hated him with the fire of a thousand suns.  
  
He took her there, right on the desk of his study, the rough, dark surface scraping her back and making her bleed. Her dressing gown lay in shreds, torn by his passion and possession. "I own you," Alfred whispered into her ear while she shuddered. "You are mine." His thrusts into her aching, bleeding, fragile body were painful, making Satine bite her lip to fend off a scream until it bled too. "Mine. Mine. MINE!" He must have reached his climax, for the last word shook them both so violently Alfred was torn off her and down to the ground, Satine in his iron clench. When they toppled to the floor and her head made contact with that surface, she lost consciousness.  
  
EOC3 


	4. Chapter IV

Chapter IV  
  
How short-lived the Bohemian Revolution, how faded its league. Christian almost didn't recognize his friends when his eyes roved over the confines of Toulouse's studio/home. There they sat, eyes glazed over, signaling the descent into many glasses of Absinthe. The Argentinean stumbled when he tried to walk, the Doctor's beard was a tangled disarray and he looked distant, and Satie's hands trembled so that when he tried to put his fingers to piano keys, no music would flow from them.  
  
Christian suppressed a look of shock; he'd been gone for but weeks, and look at the mess of his friends. Even the shortest bit of time can change someone so drastically, he mused. "Hello, Christian," slurred the Argentinean, lifting his glass sloppily and watching as the liquid splashed to the ground. "We've got a plan!" Toulouse's lisp was triumphant, and his grin was almost as broad as Christian's.  
  
"A plan?" Quizzical looks from the other three as they responded. "Yes," Christian stepped forward and thrust the newspaper at them. "Read."  
  
"Prince of Wales to view theatrical performance?"  
  
"No, the one below that."  
  
"Parisian actress to wed Duke of Monroth . . .Duke of Monroth . . ." The Doctor's voice trailed off incoherently. "Oh! A Parisian actress is marrying the Duke!" Sprang the words of realization from the mouth of Satie. "No, you idiots." Toulouse took the paper and snapped it smartly, all eyes on the droplets of absinthe that fell to the floor as he did so. "He's marrying Satine!"  
  
While Toulouse was telling his cohorts the tragic but dramatic tale of Satine's betrayal and betrothal, Christian poured and lit two glasses of the magical green liquid. He felt that welcome sensation as it burned down his throat, wanting it to lure him into that oh-so-familiar world of disillusionment, but the Green Fairy would not come to him tonight. So he put down his glass and lit a cigarette instead. "And what's our plan?" Drawled the Doctor, extinguishing his smoldering cigar underneath his heel.  
  
"We've got to save her!"  
  
"Toulouse, you're crazy."  
  
"That's what I said," Christian replied. "But Toulouse is right. Even after what she's done, you all love Satine and I love Satine. Please, my friends, let's save the Bohemian Revolution by saving Satine."  
  
Toulouse and Christian described their plan to a half-listening audience. "The Duke has two homes, one here in France and the other in England."  
  
"England, where I hail from," Christian added. "Next week, the papers should be announcing the date of the wedding and the location."  
  
"Christian?" Asked Satie, putting down his glass momentarily. His eyes were limpid pools of brown, kind and understanding though glassy. "How can you be sure she still loves you?"  
  
Christian stopped and stared, dumbfounded by the question, and Toulouse's face contorted into a half-snarl, half-shocked gaze. "Satie! How dare you say that! You know she does! You've seen it with your own eyes just as I have; maybe you were too drunk to remember!" Toulouse spat. Christian was taken aback by the violent show of emotion Toulouse had just portrayed. "Toulouse, settle down."  
  
"We all know Satine doesn't want to marry that weasel," the Argentinean drawled. "But what are we gonna do about it?"  
  
"That's easy. We're going to kidnap her."  
  
"Kidnap her?" "Yes. Now go and pack what little you own. We're taking a train to London."  
  
  
  
It was early evening by the time the posse had assembled: the Argentinean in his "traveling suit," the Doctor carrying a camera and suitcase, Toulouse with a small sketch pad, Satie with a violin, Christian with the little he owned, and the newest members, Nini and Chocolat. Satine's closet confidantes (and sometime rival, in Nini's case) were to be key instruments in their quest. "Where're we going, Shakespeare?" Nini asked, plunking down her suitcase and dropping down beside Toulouse on a red brocade train seat. "We're going to London; my family will house us there until the wedding day arrives." He stated. "But if my father disagrees with that, I suppose we'll have to hole up in some cheap hotel."  
  
"All aboard for London! All aboard for London on the 4505! All aboard!" The conductor's loud baritone boomed out across Paris, drifting through the fog that inhabited the city. And then the train set off, a cloud of smoke the only lasting remainder long after it had departed.  
  
His comrades were asleep, lulled by the steady chug of the train and tired of the scenery that flashed so uninterestingly before them. But Christian stayed awake.  
  
He turned to Nini, who slept soundly beside him. Her hair was long and loose, wild corkscrew curls that were usually bound now free. Without a trace of those garish cosmetics she wore to enhance her features at night, she looked almost girlish, almost innocent. And beside them were Toulouse, whose face turned towards the window in an expression of longing even though he was asleep. Chocolat's long, muscular limbs stretched across the short length of their seat like a jungle cat's. The other Bohemians slept crumpled together in a heap as though together they were protected from the hazards a drunkard could face.  
  
How was he sure that this trip was more than just a bohemian fantasy? It worked in storybooks, but really, could saving Satine from the clutches of an evil duke really happen? Whatever this mission truly was, Christian would keep his hopeful boyishness. It hadn't failed him yet.  
  
The moon in its silvery glory illuminated the new green of the grass, electric and far more beautiful than anything he'd seen in the Moulin Rouge, but for Satine, of course. Stars twinkled like tiny diamond chips and all of this beauty just made his heart ache. Though Paris had been a city of great hope and then, in the end, lost dreams, lost love, Christian could barely part with its breathtaking beauty . . . and unfathomable ugliness.  
  
Though it hurt him to leave, Christian reassured himself that the gentle movement of the train was taking him home, and to her.  
  
EOC4 (Where have all the reviews gone?) 


	5. Chapter V

She awoke in terrible pain. Satine could feel where bruises were beginning to form, purplish flowers blossoming on her tender skin, raw and red. When lifted from her crumpled position on the ground where Alfred had obviously left her the night before, Satine's head began to pound and her body to shake. Her hands grasped for the edge of the desk, and when they made contact she found the strength to pull herself up. Dizzy, Satine reached for the walking stick she knew stood beside the desk and tightened her fingers around it, using it for support to leave the room.  
  
She hobbled uneasily through the corridors and painstakingly up the huge flight of stairs to her bedroom suite. Alfred would have departed early for his business meetings, so Satine knew she was safe from him today.  
  
It was a beautiful morning; the sky was a bright azure blue with only a few fluffy clouds to decorate it. Alfred's many perfectly tended gardens were alive with colorful blossoms that Satine could nearly smell as she looked out the magnificent glass window. "Homer!" She called, summoning the burly manservant that Alfred had hired specifically for the care of his mistress. "Homer!"  
  
"Miss Satine, what can I do for ya?" The large man with twinkling brown eyes and a temperament to match was there in moments. "I'm not feeling well today, Homer dear, but I'd love to sit outside. Could you . . ." She gestured to the cane that kept her from falling over and the manservant nodded briskly.  
  
"Yes ma'am." Homer, an American drafted to France for military service, had taken up with the workforce and miraculously landed in the palm of Satine, whom he worshipped and cared for as though she were a fragile butterfly. In one swift movement, Homer lifted the light body of Satine and carried her down the stairs and out the heavy mahogany doors.  
  
The warmth of the spring day was instantly refreshing and it wrapped itself around her like a welcome embrace. Homer set Satine down in a chair on the terrace so she could be surrounded by flowers and soak up the morning sunshine. "Do you need anything, Miss Satine?"  
  
"Please, send Doll out with a cup of strong coffee and buttered toast." Satine smiled warmly and patted Homer's hand gently. "Thank you."  
  
"You're welcome, Miss Satine. I'll be around the house; just holler if you need me."  
  
She felt just like an English matron sitting there on the Parisian terrace, sipping her hot coffee and surrounded by the overly fragrant, however beautiful, roses. In the melodic chirping of what seemed to be a thousand birds, Satine felt as though they were mocking her, singing her a song someone in her past had taunted her with.  
  
She thought back to a time seemingly so long ago, a time when she reigned over the Moulin Rouge as the Sparkling Diamond, almighty goddess of sex. And she remembered one specific night, years before the advent of Christian, when a young man enamored with her had stood underneath her window and sang to her, jealous for she was spending the night with an elderly count.  
  
"She's only a bird in a gilded cage, a beautiful sight to see. You may think she's happy and free from care. She's not, though she seems to be. 'Tis sad when you think of her wasted life, for youth cannot mate with age. And her beauty was sold for an old man's gold. She's a bird in a gilded cage."  
  
Satine felt the sting of tears before they fell freely. God, she'd done so much crying in these past few days! She wiped them away before the approaching Homer would notice and focused on the spectacular floral arrangements before her. "Are you doing good, Miss Satine?" Asked her ever-faithful manservant. "Yes, Homer, I'm quite well. Thank you so much for your concern, but I think I'll be able to manage alone."  
  
"Yes ma'am," and with that, Homer was gone and Satine had her solace once again.  
  
Later on, when the sweet warmth of the morning turned into the heat of afternoon, Satine escaped back into the house. Longing for a bath, she crept up the stairs as to not disturb Warner, whom she still feared. And on her bed lay a note in the crooked handwriting of her betrothed. Satine picked it up and scanned its contents:  
  
"My dear, please begin having the maids pack your things, for I've arranged our departure to my home in London. We will be leaving early tomorrow morning, so waste no time."  
  
That was all. No words of apology for the pain he'd caused her the night before. Satine summoned her maids and instructed them to pack her belongings. She watched from the doorway as they neatly folded her garish garments into that lavender-scented trunk and to her pained consciousness it was as though they were packing away little bits of her life. She watched, too, as they picked up the strewn strands of diamonds, the jewels she had sold herself for and now just threw away as she'd been thrown away, and placed them in secret compartments.  
  
The next day, wearing a dress of pale blue and a light white coat over it, with her red hair stylishly held up with pearl hairpins and with a flowered, ribboned white hat jauntily placed over one eye, Satine and Alfred boarded a train to England.  
  
She was immersed in "Anna Karenina" when Satine felt Alfred's hand on her shoulder. "I'm going for some refreshment, dearest. Care to join me?" He smiled his smarmy smile and Satine tore her eyes away from Anna and Vronsky to reply softly, "No thank you."  
  
"As you wish, Satine."  
  
She slammed the book shut and smiled at the little boy in the seat behind her as he jumped, startled. "Sorry to disturb you." She whispered, rising and smoothing the wrinkles in her skirt. "If he comes back," Satine gestured to the fleeting form of Alfred in his brown duster coat and bowler hat, "tell him I went to the powder room. Would you do that for me?"  
  
"Okay," agreed the child, gazing up at her with a look of wonder that made her beam.  
  
She peeked through the curtain separating the upper class section from the steerage of the train and gasped, throwing that red velvet back to hide herself. Satine had seen a very, very familiar face, and it threw her heart into a terrible tremor. But she parted the curtain again, examining them closely. Nini, in a green ensemble with an ostentatious hat of pink plumes; nothing had changed there. Chocolat, handsome in a traveling suit, reading. The Doctor, Satie, and the Argentinean, busying themselves with playing cards. Toulouse, sketching.  
  
Christian. He sat there beside Nini, a book on his knee that he was not paying attention to. She was talking to him, but it appeared he was more interested in the fleeting scenery. Satine could not tear her gaze away from him and impulsively walked down the aisle towards the ladies' room. None looked up as her swishing figure passed save for Toulouse, whose eyes lit up as if to speak. Satine held a finger to her mouth in a quieting motion and shook her head "no."  
  
Satine stood in the cramped quarters waiting for her breath to slow to normal. He had worn a cheap but extremely clean and well-pressed suit. The jacket had been removed in the heat and a bowler hat similar to Alfred's (it looked so much better on Christian, of course. In his hat, Alfred looked like a mouse . . .or something ladies weren't supposed to discuss, even think about) sat fashionably on that glorious dark hair. His eyes were sad, wistful like her own, as he looked out at the misty green landscape and Satine had longed so to speak to him. Hopefully Toulouse would hold his tongue and not reveal her presence.  
  
What were they doing on a train to London? Maybe they were bored with Paris? Going on a day-trip? They hadn't known of her destination, so it was certainly no mission to save her though she wished it were.  
  
When her body had quit shaking and her heart had stopped palpitating wildly, she took a deep breath, pinched her cheeks to give them color after her face had drained completely white upon seeing him again, and stepped out once again to the judgment of the train car. "Good afternoon," she said to Toulouse, who was still staring at her open- mouthed. Satine made sure her voice's pitch had lowered a step or two as not to give away herself to Christian, and with a brisk nod she was gone.  
  
In the pages of "Anna Karenina" were a few teardrops, smearing the ink. 


	6. Chapter VI

A/N: This chapter has a Titanic vibe. Minus Leo and the sinking and all, but a Titanic vibe just the same. And this chapter isn't very good.  
  
He inhaled, looking up sharply when that scent registered in his mind. Sweet violet and rose, laced with calla lily. Her scent; Satine's. The woman in the expensive white suit wore her perfume. "Toulouse!" Christian cried, wanting his friend's support right away. But the small artist merely glanced his way and then quickly turned to divert his attention.  
  
The train stopped that afternoon and the travelers boarded a ship, the very large and very extravagant "Queen Victoria IV" in honor of the English queen.  
  
"Looks like 'er," quipped the Doctor. Nini, ever aware of her Cockney roots, shot him a glare of daggers. "I'm sorry, ma'am," he apologized quickly.  
  
"You'd better be." She adjusted her towering green hat and straightened the red plume, pinched her cheeks and bit her lips, sending a rush of crimson color into them and grinned as the Argentinean's eyes turned to stare.  
  
  
  
Satine, too, was on this boat. Though her Bohemian counterparts were being stowed in the third class cabins, Satine and Alfred had their own private suites in first class. "Money can't buy love," she mused, "but it can buy everything else."  
  
Satine's suite was grand; watered blue silk sheets on the softest bed possible, blue velvet coverlet and curtains, thick blue carpet, Monet paintings on the walls that were covered in blue brocade. It was a refreshing change from all the red of the Red Room and the Moulin Rouge. Those thoughts, however, made her heart ache and expertly she stowed them in a dusty corner of her mind.  
  
"Is everything satisfactory, my dear?" Alfred asked. "To your liking?"  
  
Satine was in the middle of removing her white traveling ensemble and looked up at the face of her fiancée. "Oh, yes. Very nice."  
  
"Would you like some assistance?"  
  
"Please." Well, she needed someone to undo the back of her dress; Satine needed that thing off as soon as possible. Alfred rushed to her side and with fumbling fingers finally undid the dress.  
  
"Thank you. Now would you please step out so I can change?" Get him OUT of here, Satine's conscience was screaming.  
  
"As you wish, my darling."  
  
  
  
  
  
Christian, alone, strolled the docks of the Queen Victoria IV. The sky was perfect blue, flawlessly cloudless. The sea underneath glittered deeper sapphire, rhythmically moving in waves as the ship sliced through seemingly effortlessly. It was a beautiful Bohemian poet's day and he grinned as the wind played with his hair, phantom fingers reminding him of Satine. He walked towards the bow of the ship, letting the sea spray on his skin. For what seemed like hours, Christian's eyes and heart dissolved into the unequaled beauty of the seascape and he thought of nothing else. Already on this trip he'd seen (and felt) complete Freedom. He'd known the Truth of his feelings for Satine. Beauty was everywhere in his poet's mind. But Love? Love was, and would be, elusive for some time. But Love, too, was in his future. He could feel it looming closer and closer.  
  
  
  
Now in a pale green silk dress that was so much more comfortable than her previous gown, freshly bathed, coiffed, and jeweled, Satine was free to explore. The deplorable fiancée had wandered down to the gentlemen's room, leaving her blissfully alone. Her silk heels that matched the dress clicked in time with the beating of her heart on the smooth wooden floor of top deck. "Not far to England," she murmured to herself. "Not far."  
  
It was then that her eyes rested on the solitary figure standing before the ship's bow. He wore a plain blue shirt and brown trousers, held up by simple suspenders. His bowler hat was gone, leaving chestnut hair free to fly in the breeze. Her heart and breathing both stopped. And then, impulsively, she was running. Running towards him, a shimmer of green and auburn. "Christian!" Satine called out, the urgency in her tone surprising even herself.  
  
  
  
Her voice! Satine! Christian whipped around so quickly that the wind temporarily left his lungs. Was she a mirage, a vision brought on by the desperate hunger for love? Satine looked every bit the part, a mist of pale jade silk floating effortlessly as if on angel's wings. Her eyes were the deep color of the ocean and there were emeralds at her throat and in her ears. "Christian!" She repeated, racing towards him. She flung herself into his outstretched arms with so much force that the two were nearly knocked down. Instinctively his arms were around her and he was kissing her.  
  
He had sea spray in his eyelashes that danced on her cheek. His lips, his skin, were faintly cloaked in that salty mist and she tasted it on her own mouth. Christian's steady warmth radiated inside of her infernal cold, a mix of love and fear. "No, we can't. Alfred . . ." She found herself whispering into his ear as he drew her into a supply closet filled with mops and buckets. "He could find us."  
  
"It doesn't matter! All that matters is that you're back, Satine. You're here and we're together, the way it's supposed to be!"  
  
"No, Christian. I can only stay a few minutes. Alfred has acquaintances everywhere," her tone was shaky, nervous. "Please. Just kiss me again so I will have something to fortify the rest of my dreary years with. Kiss me, Christian. Kiss me like you mean it."  
  
The next moments were a stream of consciousness, colors, scents, and feelings careening throughout Satine's body, moments of frenzied kisses and embraces. She let herself surrender to the heat in his kiss, knowing this could very possibly be their last. "Oh, how I love you," she breathed, desperately wanting to give into her adorable penniless poet.  
  
"I will love you forever," was Christian's solemn reply.  
  
"Christian, I've got to leave. I must have dinner with Alfred; I promised him."  
  
"Will I see you again?"  
  
"I don't know. Let us hope so."  
  
"I'll cross my fingers." He grinned at her, kissing her one more time. Begrudgingly, he tore his hands from her waist and his lips from hers to finally whisper, "Goodbye, my darling dancing diamond."  
  
"Goodbye, Christian. Always know that I love you."  
  
She was gone and Christian did not see her for the rest of their journey.  
  
They played poker in smoky rooms. Christian and the Bohemians grew to be expert players, knowing just how to swindle the richer gentlemen that frequented the lower decks for wilder games. "All it takes is a few glasses of hard whiskey and they're putty in your hands," the Argentinean told him before losing consciousness, tipping his wobbly chair and crashing to the floor. Christian's hands worked magic with a deck of cards and a few francs, pounds, or American dollars. With Toulouse and the Doctor to play alongside him and whomever else chose to reckon with the Bohemian poker storm, Satie to while away the hours on a fiddle, accordion, or piano, and Nini to enchant the men by sitting on their laps and massaging their foreheads, they easily raked in great sums of petty cash.  
  
"Money makes the world go around!" Toulouse whooped, dancing about their small cabin with coins clinking in his top hat.  
  
"The world go around, the world go around!" Echoed Nini, who perched daintily on the legs of the unconscious Argentinean.  
  
"A mark, a yen, a buck, or a pound is all that makes the world go around!" Christian added his voice to their impromptu song.  
  
"That clinking clanking sound can make the world go 'round!" They threw coins in the air, catching them in their hats, making complete fools out of themselves but not caring because it was all part of the Bohemian Revolution.  
  
"If you happen to be rich," began Satie, "and feel like a night's entertainment, you can pay for a gay escapade."  
  
"If you happen to be rich and alone and need a companion," came Nini's reply. "You can always ring-ting-a-ling for the maid." She shook her hips in a bawdy way and lowered her voice several notches, making it smoky and seductive, forgetting by now that she couldn't possibly be sexy to any of her male cohorts since they'd all seen her naked a thousand times before.  
  
"Money makes the world go around!" All Bohemians chorused, falling into their beds drunk and intoxicated with happiness.  
  
Back in her stateroom, Satine lay listlessly in the ocean of azure that was supposed to be a bed. Over and over in her muddled mess of a mind she was replaying the scene with Christian.  
  
Without it even registering in her mind, she was out of bed and on her way to Alfred's adjoining room, clutching a dressing gown about her. She was going to break the engagement, run down and find Christian, and hide for the rest of the voyage. She didn't care anymore, didn't care about money and security. She wanted Love.  
  
"Alfred-" Satine began as soon as he acknowledged her presence. "I-I-"  
  
In his hands was the most beautiful ruby necklace she'd ever seen. His eyes captured hers and in them she saw a glint of innocent love. Suddenly, Satine felt deeply for this poor man, who'd never had anyone love him in return. She smiled softly. She didn't love him, but she could try. "I want to carry calla lilies at the wedding." 


	7. Chapter VII

If she couldn't love Alfred, she could easily love his house. Alfred's England manor was far more beautiful than any home she'd lived in before. The marble floors were impeccably glossy, as were all the wood surfaces, polished painstakingly by many maids. All around them were bouquets; vanilla-scented purple heliotrope, huge pink peonies, cheerful yellow daffodils.  
  
The house, surprisingly, was rather small. "My wife wanted a small house," Alfred informed her as she trailed, amazed, through the halls. "You'll detect her influence everywhere. She designed it all herself." Satine was touched by the wistfulness in his voice and slipped her arm through his in a comforting gesture. "It's beautiful."  
  
"It is," he agreed.  
  
Satine's eyes roved over the walls, papered in a delicate violet-blue. She was only half-listening to Alfred, who was saying something about his former wife. "Olivia died several years ago. I haven't had the heart to change anything in Hollyoak."  
  
"Hollyoak. Is that what you call the house?"  
  
Alfred nodded. "She named it."  
  
"I gather she was a very special woman."  
  
"Oh yes. Very special."  
  
"Haven't you any pictures of her?" Alfred nodded again and pointed to a huge painting hanging on one buttermilk-colored wall. On the smooth canvas was painted a woman. "She wasn't much of a beauty. Nothing to rival you, my darling." He was correct; Olivia could never have made it in the Moulin Rouge. Her hair was a mousy shade, her skin pale and sickly, and her figure painfully thin. But her eyes were beautiful; deep emerald green, they seemed to sparkle and light up the room. "But she was deeply intelligent and well-bred. I loved her."  
  
This made Satine a bit uneasy. She'd be the "new mistress" in the house that was not her own. She wouldn't have the heart to change anything for it was too pretty, but in each painting, in each bouquet of flowers, there'd be a shred of Alfred's former wife. "I'm very sorry," was all she could muster.  
  
"Hollyoak shall be happy and beautiful again, with you to fill its walls with a new joy."  
  
"I will try."  
  
"My study is this way," he gestured to a closed door. Satine shuddered; studies held bad memories. "Along with the library. The kitchen is in there and here is the dining room."  
  
Oh, it was grand! Satine wanted to squeal like a child. The table was long, decorated by ornate candlesticks and a chandelier hung overhead. Quickly she counted chairs; seven, eight, nine, ten. There was a fireplace and through the huge windows one could admire the scenery; a shimmering lake, gardens full of blossoming flowers, and graceful willow trees. Underneath her feet was a cream-colored area rug weaved with designs of courtly love. "Will we host a supper here?"  
  
"Once we're settled in, I'm sure we shall. You like this room?"  
  
"Very much! It's absolutely beautiful, Alfred."  
  
"Shall I take you up to your room? I'm sure Homer has your trunks upstairs already." At Satine's insistence, her manservant accompanied them on the journey to England. "You want to freshen up, I'm sure."  
  
"Please."  
  
Up the grand staircase they went, Satine trailing her fingers across the balustrade, completely enchanted. Everything in Hollyoak was so much more serene, less foreboding as the Parisian mansion was. Here there were no stuffed animal heads hanging from the wall, glassy, lifeless eyes forever staring. Whereas the Paris house was masculine, in Hollyoak the feminine influence was easily detected.  
  
"This will be your bedroom. The bath suite is adjoining. My suite is down the hall."  
  
Separate bedrooms! Satine thanked God silently. Looking about the room that would be hers for the rest of her married life, she let out a sigh of happiness. "Oh, it's lovely." The walls were covered in a pale pink, much like the inside of a seashell. The carpet was a slightly deeper shade and the bed was what child Satine would have called, "a fairy princess bed" for a canopy of pale pink sheer curtains hung from the four posts. The vanity was painted white and the doting Homer had laid her trunks in a corner. "Was this . . .her room?"  
  
"No. I had a different room made up for you. That would have been quite morbid indeed. Now, if you don't mind, my dearest, I've got some business arrangements that cannot be avoided any longer. I'll send the maids up for you at dinner, but feel free to explore."  
  
As soon as she was bathed (her bathroom was completely covered in mirrors all round and the bathtub was inlaid with mother-of-pearl!) and dressed in a lighter gown of purple silk, Satine did exactly that. She traipsed throughout corridors, examining all rooms and all décor. Each room had a charming quaintness, refreshing with colors matching the flowers placed everywhere. Only one door was locked, and she assumed that had been Olivia's bedroom.  
  
She found herself gravitating towards the outdoors. Shunning a hat and shoes, Satine ran like a little girl towards the lake. The primroses' sweet, lemony scent permeated the air, wafting along the breeze that lifted her unpinned hair. Stopping for a moment to place a white rose behind her ear, Satine suddenly burst into tears.  
  
"What kind of person are you, Satine?" She asked herself. "You don't love Alfred. You can't possibly love that weasel. But you're making yourself love him, fooling him and hurting Christian in return. What are you going to do? You love Christian. You want Christian. But are you going to make like a man and have a mistress on the side? You're going to demean him by sneaking him to your room on lonely nights or when Alfred is away? You're going to deprive him of happiness just for your own pleasure? And what will you do if Alfred finds out? You know how terrible his jealousy can be."  
  
The waves were rushing harder, faster. Satine lifted her skirts and waded in. Ankles. Shins. Knees. Deeper, deeper. They crashed around her as though signaling a storm. She was crying, she was distraught. "Come further, come further," they seemed to whisper.  
  
But she couldn't. She held her head high and waded back out so only her feet were caressed by the warmth of the water. The waves that had seemed so evil and menacing in the greater depths now were calming her by saying, "There, there. Hush, hush."  
  
Not caring about her dress, she sat in the sand and pulled the petals off her rose. "I am this flower." She said. "Once upon a time, I was pretty and unblemished like this flower. But then Harold found me." One petal floated away into the lake. "And made me a whore." Another petal followed. "And my virginity was taken away from me in a mass of blood, sweat, and tears." Three petals. "One by one my petals fell." They made a procession floating towards the setting sun. Her voice was choked with sobs. "Slowly I was worn away until I was but one petal. And now I have none."  
  
"Miss Satine! Miss Satine! It's time for you to prepare for dinner!" It was Homer's voice and he was heading down to retrieve her. Quickly she dried her tears and threw the stem into the water, where it met a watery end. On and on the petals floated. 


	8. Chapter VIII

Chapter Eight

They abandoned the idea of staying with Christian's family, much to the chagrin of Nini and Toulouse. ("I want to meet your parents!") Instead, the Bohemians took a cheap hotel room with rusty water, moth-eaten curtains, uncomfortable beds, and the disgusting smell of boiled cabbage that would simply not go away no matter how many cigars were smoked, how many windows opened, or how many splashes of perfume spritzed on Nini's neck.    
"This better be worth it, Christian," was one complaint from the Argentinean, who dealt poker cards before dropping into another dead faint.    
"Couldn't Nini have paid for a better room? Don't you make enough money, Nin?" Christian teased, slapping a poor card down on the table and taking a slow drag on his cigar.  

She curled up her lips in a sneer, revealing pearl-like teeth in a scarlet-painted mouth.  The pea-green paisley of the curtains created a sickening contrast."I'm a lady.  You're gentlemen.  That means you pay.  That also means you get your ass into this game and win some money.  I ain't sleepin' here too long!" 

"You're no lady.  And we're no gentlemen," came the chorus of Bohemians.  

"Home, Christian," said Toulouse.  "Home is where the heart is. . .and maybe here you'll find your heart again." 

~

It was now the middle of May, and the past few weeks had been a flurry of wedding preparations.  They'd chosen their church, a bleak, Gothic-style Catholic building Satine hated.  She'd chosen her flowers; calla lilies and bleeding hearts.  Everything was prepared, except for her gown.  She was going into London today to find one, and not taking Alfred along.

He sickened her.  She couldn't endear her heart to him anymore.  It was too much; the jewels nearly every day, the constant affection, the regular need he had for sex.  It drove her mad, and with Hollyoak solitary in the countryside there was seemingly nowhere she could escape to.  "Well, if I'm going to go insane somewhere, it may as well be here."

Piles of books were at her bedside, crocheted (Yes, she was crocheting! Satine hated sewing!) bookmarks haphazardly stuck in random pages.  She reorganized her closet multiple times. The gardens were in perfect shape and even a team of trained bloodhounds could find not one speck of dust. She engaged a new staff.  She painted.  "How can I be a society wife for the rest of my life when I'm bored already?" Asked the bored fiancée to her reflection one particularly stir-crazy night.  Cups of tea on an elegant veranda were all well and good. . .if you weren't born to perform and sit atop trapezes.  Satine often wondered how those society wives would react if they knew she'd been a whore in skimpy corsets and her price had been paid in diamonds. . .  
"You'll adjust.  Once you have children," answered pretty, sexy Sparkling Diamond Satine.

"Ugh. Don't remind me."  
  


~

Alone on a green England hill, inhaling that sweet foggy scent of home he'd missed so much, Christian fiddled with a bluebell. Bluebells were the color of her eyes, of her aura, the fluid grace in which she moved.  His clothes were permeated with the stench of cabbage and cigars.  Lying back on the grass, savoring the cleanliness he'd missed so much while in Paris, Christian stared into the sky.  Twilight blanketed the English countryside a misty, dusky lavender shade and only a few tiny stars dotted the landscape.  It was a painting all in itself and his poet's heart sang out in glory. 

"And now the purple dust of twilight time steals across the meadows of my heart." He began another song-poem, this one to the distant star he pretended was his sparkling diamond.  
"Now the little stars, the little stars pine always reminding me that we're apart.  You wander down the lane and far away, leaving me a love that cannot die.  Love is now the stardust of yesterday, the music of the years gone by." 

Stars were supposed to be a poet's inspiration, a figment of beauty in a world where that shimmering oracle could be impossible to find.  Tonight, though, Christian hated stars.  Stars that jested mercilessly, stars that danced bitterly in his jaded mind.  They reminded him of that leash of diamonds she'd worn around her neck binding her to Alfred, the diamonds sealing their fate.

"Sometimes I wonder why I spend the lonely nights dreaming of a song."  
  
_My gift is my song, and this one's for you.  _

"The melody haunts my reverie and I am once again with you when our love was new and each kiss an inspiration."  
  
_How wonderful life is now you're in the world!_

"But that was long ago.  Now my consolation is in the stardust of a song."

_"I love you! I want to shout it out to the world! I'm in love, I'm in love, I'm in love!"_

"Beside a garden wall where stars are bright you are in my arms."  
  
_"Christian?"  
"What?"  
"Look up.  Look up at the stars.  See how they shine like diamonds? How far off they are? Wouldn't you trade anything to be a star?"_

"The nightingale tells its fairy tale of paradise where roses grew.  Though I dream in vain, in my heart it will remain my stardust melody."

_"I will always love you. . .forever and forever."_

~

She did love London.  Though the fog was overpowering and oftentimes choked her with its gray rush, the shops were rosy and quaint like a storybook nanny and filled with a warmth Paris didn't always have.  Storefront windows created picturesque displays of the newest fashions imported from her native country, charming gowns and hats she coveted and knew would be hers with only a glance.  That was the perk of this marriage thing; Alfred was her puppy dog and she strung him along wheedlingly.   

Into the first store she went, and lo and behold, there she found her wedding gown! It was a _horrid _thing and exactly what she wanted: high-necked, long sleeves peaking at her wrists, covered in awful little seed pearls.  Completely disgusting and ostentatious.  _Alfred will love it. _ 

She stood impatiently on the dressmaker's podium with her arms held straight out and aching, for what seemed like hours, while that ill-tempered lady jabbed pins with a vengeance.  "Ye picked the ugliest dress I ever seen, girlie."  
"Well, I'm marrying the ugliest man you've ever seen.  But keep it between you and me."  
"Money, honey?" The woman's voice was filled with a jaded understanding as if a dozen women like Satine had come for their fittings.  "Your dress'll be done on Tuesday."

~  
  
He danced on streets of his beloved city, a song in his voice and in his step.  _I'm going to save you, Satine! We'll run away, run away together! _ Children giggled as he passed them by, elderly women smiled Sphinx-like in their knowing way . . ._he's in love.  He's in love. Look at that sweet boy. . .he's in love._

One of those children, a tiny boy in blue knee pants and a corduroy cap perched atop flaming red hair, little freckles like inkblots on milky Cockney skin, handed Christian a note.  "For you, capt'n."  
"For me?"   
"From a lady."  
"A lady? What did she look like?"  
"She was all rich lookin', real pretty.  She told me to give this to you." He stuffed the envelope into Christian's palm and ran off with the other children, not hearing Christian's stunned "Thank you."

_Christian,_

_June twelfth. Five o' clock in the evening.  _

  
  



End file.
